


The Dreamwalker

by Rawren (Zimothy)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Historical, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Soulmates, Wolf Derek, medieval era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimothy/pseuds/Rawren
Summary: Stiles barely believed in soulmates, yet now he was presented with having his life saved by a black wolf. A black wolf that decides to then accompany Stiles on his journey to request help from the king for his father.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [endgame-sterek (HannahGrace125)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahGrace125/gifts).



“Raiders!”

The cry tore across the halls of Whittemore Manor, echoed by a hundred other shouts as people immediately began to spread word. Stiles stood from the desk he’d been seated at, striding across his chambers to grab his chainmail and throw it on. He snagged his sword from where it was resting by the door in it’s scabbard, rushing out of the room to meet his father just shy of the main hall. *His father, captain of the guard, was already in battle mode, directing soldiers and servants with authority in his voice. Lord Whittemore was there as well, buckling his armor across his chest. 

Stiles’ father reached out, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Stiles, find Jackson. Keep him safe.”

“Father--”

“Do as I say.”

Stiles held back argument, hearing the shouts outside the Manor of men fighting and others screaming in terror. He knew the chaos that awaited outside, and what exactly would happen if they fell to raiders. He bowed his head in acceptance, glancing up when his father gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he was gone, sword in hand and face grim.

Stiles made his way down the halls to Jackson’s chamber. He and his betrothed, Lady Lydia, were inside. Soulmates were rare, but when Lady Lydia had come from a neighboring town and met Lord Jackson, their soulmarks had immediately appeared on the backs of their right hands. It was an immediate proposal. 

Jackson was pacing the room and Lydia stood at the window, wringing her hands. They both looked at him for only a moment when he entered. Stiles said nothing, shutting the door and keeping himself stationed nearby it in case of intruders. 

Silence overtook them all. It was too grim a situation to make idle conversation. Stiles could feel his heart pounding, worried for his father and for those whose screams he heard outside of the manor. 

Feet thundered down the hall, throwing open door after door. Stiles pulled his sword out, turning and facing their own door in preparation. When it flew open, Stiles only allowed a moment to stare the man down before he struck. He wasn’t fast enough to do it properly-- his sword speared through the man’s gut but he wasn’t able to stop the raider from throwing out his dagger and taking a chunk out of Stiles’ arm before he died. 

Stiles cursed, dropping the man and his sword to hold his arm against his body as blood poured from the wound. Lydia was at his side in an instant, assessing the injury and then turning to her betrothed. “Bring me a sheet, please. We need to wrap this.”

Jackson, still stunned at what he’d witnessed, obeyed quietly. Lydia tore off what she needed, wrapping Stiles’ arm until the blood wasn’t soaking it. Just as she tied it off, the sound of more footsteps came from the halls. 

Stiles grabbed his sword, but when his father appeared in the doorway he sighed in relief. 

“Lord Whittemore is dead.” Stiles’ father said grimly. Stiles’ relief was short-lived, it seemed. 

Jackson let out a pained noise from behind Stiles. Stiles’ father frowned. “Stiles, I need you to send word to the king. Tell him what happened here. We need more men. We won’t survive another raider attack this winter.”

Stiles nodded, opening his mouth to speak but finding he had nothing to say. His head was still reeling from what had happened. He slipped past his father, hurrying to his chambers to pack what he needed. The manor was in disarray, a few bodies littering the main halls and servants running about. Stiles packed up his horse. His arm was numb from the pain, and it hindered much of his movement. He knew he should have spent more time gathering food in the kitchen, but he knew his father wouldn’t let him make the journey if he knew of Stiles’ injury. He wanted to limit his time around others. Stiles had never been entrusted with this kind of responsibility and he wanted to make his father proud. 

It was three days until winter solstice, the snow on the ground thick enough that Stiles had to stop just shy of the last village on their land so Stiles could consult his father’s map to make sure he was facing the right direction. They had nearly a week’s worth of traveling ahead of them and he couldn’t risk mistakes early on. It was cold, and Stiles’ wounded arm throbbed with every slight burst of chilly wind that hit him. Astride his horse again, he curled in on himself, trying to protect his injury from the cold as they made their way down the path and into deeper forest.

When nightfall came, Stiles knew he’d have to stop before the next town. The first patch of clear land was where he dismounted. It took him the better part of an hour to get a fire going, his arm shaking with any strain and his fingers cold and stiff. With the wind brushing against his back and the meager fire in front of him still struggling to grow, Stiles almost wished he had asked his father to send someone else in his stead. He could have been home, full of hot food instead of day-old bread, nestled in furs and listening to his father’s recounts of the battle. 

Instead he was shivering, throat dry and lips chapped as he choked down the bread he had, taking sips of ale from a small flask to keep himself warm and his thirst quenched. The fire blurred before him, his temples starting to throb as a headache set in. He felt ill, and utterly exhausted from the cold. He sniffed, rubbing his arm against his nose and regretting it the second the cold, snow-wet material rubbed against his face. He curled his lips, a swell of frustration hitting him before it was suddenly calmed. There was an odd sensation crawling up his spine, like a warm hand pressing against the base of his neck where it met with his shoulders. He sat up straight, suddenly breathless, and scanned the surrounding forest. It was dark, the sun long fallen behind the treeline, and Stiles’ vision was poor from staring at the small flame that was sitting before him. He squinted, trying to hear over the shuffling of his horse and the crackling fire. 

Nothing was there, and Stiles felt even more spooked than before. There was a presence nearby, but not one that Stiles felt would endanger him. He didn’t know what to do-- so he called out.

“Hello?” Stiles rasped, swallowing and trying to gather more strength in his voice. “Show yourself!”

When nothing happened, Stiles leapt to his feet . His headache flared and the forest spun as he became lightheaded. For a moment his vision darkened and Stiles was terrified that he would faint, but he managed to shake it off enough to reach for his sword.  
More silence, almost deafening. Stiles’ horse mouthed at his shoulder and he pushed at her nose, trying to see into the darkness. The air was cold in his lungs, body screaming for sleep. He sagged the slightest bit, and then settled back down on the old stump he’d found, sniffling a little as snowflakes melted against his nose and cheeks. He shut his eyes, letting the fire slowly warm his toes and then scooting forward enough so he could feel it on his arms where they were curled into his chest.

A rustling sound came from behind him and Stiles whipped his head around, heart pounding in his chest for a second before his eyes landed on the dead partridge that was dropped in the snow just a few feet away.

Only a moment’s hesitation had Stiles wondering where the bird had come from--but he wasn’t going to question a gift when presented to him. He leaned towards it and wrapped his hand around the bird’s neck, wary of the shadows but also feeling the hunger and desperately wanting something more fulfilling than bread and ale. He settled the partridge in his lap, hands trembling and fingers nearly numb as he wrenched out fistfuls of feathers, mouth already salivating at the thought of fresh, warm meat filling his belly. 

He still felt calm, though everything hurt and his injury continued to throb. His body was on autopilot as he speared the bird on his sword, holding it above the fire while he looked around for something he could use to hold the sword for him. It was heavy and his arm was barely managing the strain of the sword--let alone the bird currently skewered on it. 

Finding nothing, Stiles settled for propping his arm onto his knees. His wounded arm protested the action, sending spikes of sharp pain down his fingers and all the way to his elbow. The fire blurred before him and Stiles blinked a few times to try and shake it off. Snow was drizzling in the sky, falling on his lashes and melting slowly, making his eyelids feel heavy. He powered through the desire for sleep, stomach churning angrily. 

When he finally decided to check on the bird, it was only because he couldn’t bear to hold it over the fire any longer. He tore into it once the flesh had cooled enough, hands shaking as his whole body began to start shivering fiercely. He barely got a few bites in before a horrific wave of nausea hit him. The pheasant fell from his hands, hitting the snow as Stiles clutched his gut, trying not to wretch. 

After the wave finally settled, Stiles felt more tired than ever. He could barely breathe and his head was spinning. He tried to reach for the pheasant to try and continue eating but instead he was falling into the snow. Stiles tried desperately to move but his eyes were rolling, body fighting between shutting down and Stiles’ desire to be awake.

His eyes fell on the outline of a man rushing towards him. He felt calm, suddenly, like he knew that this man would not harm him. He felt the brush of hands touching him, but darkness was taking over before he could do anything, rendering him unconscious.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first installment of the story, I just had to submit it in time for Christmas and I work a lot so I couldn't write it all out. (plus it would go over the max word limit)  
> It's for endgame-sterek on tumblr. :)  
> I had to go with fantasy/ninth century -ish setting to keep myself engaged. I tried to think of a college story but I was having a hard time and I was losing time on the clock and I figured if I did some of the other favorites instead it would be ok. :)
> 
> Merry Christmas, Hannah!


End file.
